A  BOOK  OF  POEMS 

AL  QUE  QUIERE! 


By  William  Carlos  Williams 

THE    TEMPERS 
[London:    Elkin  Mathews] 


A    BOOK    OF   POEMS 

AL   QUE   QUIERE! 


BY 


WILLIAM    CARLOS   WILLIAMS 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR   SEAS   COMPANY 
1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


The    Four    Seas    Press 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


ff 


Habia  sido  un  arbusto  desmedrado  que  pro- 
longa  sus  filamentos  hasta  encontrar  el  humus 
necesario  en  una  tierra  neuva.  Y  como  me 
nutria !  Me  nutria  con  la  beatitud  con  que  las 
hojas  tremulas  de  clorofila  se  extienden  al  sol; 
con  la  beautitud  con  que  una  raiz  encuentra  un 
cadaver  en  descomposition ;  con  la  beatitud  con 
que  los  convalecientes  dan  sus  pasos  vacilantes 
en  las  mananas  de  primivera,  banadas  de  luz ; . . . 

RAFAEL    AREVALO    MARTINEZ 


M?8397 


Many  of  the  poems  in  this  book  have  appeared 
in  magazines,  especially  in  Poetry,  Others,  The 
Egoist,  and  The  Poetry  Journal 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SUB  TERRA 13 

PASTORAL    14 

CHICKORY  AND  DAISIES 15 

METRIC  FIGURE  16 

WOMAN  WALKING  17 

GULLS   18 

APPEAL  19 

IN  HARBOR 20 

WINTER  SUNSET 21 

APOLOGY  22 

PASTORAL    23 

LOVE  SONG 24 

M.  B ' 25 

~  TRACT   26 

PROMENADE    29 

EL  HOMBRE  31 

HERO   31 

LIBERTAD!  IGUALDAD!  FRATERNIDAD!  32 

CANTHARA    33 

MUJER 33 

SUMMER  SONG   34 

LOVE  SONG   35 

[7] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREIGN    35 

A  PRELUDE 36 

HISTORY    37 

WINTER  QUIET  42 

DAWN    42 

GOOD  NIGHT   43 

DANSE  RUSSE   44 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  WOMAN  IN  BED 45 

VIRTUE    47 

CONQUEST 49 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  YOUNG  MAN  WITH  A  BAD 

HEART  49 

KELLER  GEGEN  DOM 50 

SMELL  52 

BALLET   52 

SYMPATHETIC  PORTRAIT  OF  A  CHILD 54 

THE  OGRE   55 

RIPOSTE 56 

THE  OLD  MEN   57 

PASTORAL    57 

SPRING   STRAINS  58 

TREES    59 

A  PORTRAIT  IN  GREYS 60 

[8] 


PAGE 

INVITATION     61 

DlVERTIMIENTO 62 

JANUARY  MORNING   62 

To  A  SOLITARY  DISCIPLE 67 

DEDICATION  FOR  A  PLOT  OF  GROUND 69 

K.  McB 70 

LOVE  SONG 71 

THE  WANDERER 75 


[9] 


AL    QUE    QUIERE  ! 


SUB  TERRA 

Where  shall  I  find  you, 

you  my  grotesque  fellows 

that  I  seek  everywhere 

to  make  up  my  band? 

None,  not  one 

with  the  earthy  tastes  I  require; 

the  burrowing  pride  that  rises 

subtly  as  on  a  bush  in  May. 

Where  are  you  this  day, 

you  my  seven  year  locusts 

with  cased  wings? 

Ah  my  beauties  how  I  long — ! 

That  harvest 

that  shall  be  your  advent — 

thrusting  up  through  the  grass, 

up  under  the  weeds 

answering  me, 

that  shall  be  satisfying ! 

The  light  shall  leap  and  snap 

that  day  as  with  a  million  lashes ! 

Oh,  I  have  you ;  yes 
you  are  about  me  in  a  sense: 
playing  under  the  blue  pools 
that  are  my  windows, — 
but  they  shut  you  out  still, 
there  in  the  half  light. 

[13] 


Fcr  the  simple  tiuth  is 

that  the  •ugh  I  see  you  clear  enough 

you  are  not  there ! 

It  is  not  that — it  is  you, 
you  I  want ! 

— God,  if  I  could  fathom 
the  guts  of  shadows ! 

You  to  come  with  me 

poking  into  negro  houses 

with  their  gloom  and  smell! 

In  among  children 

leaping  around  a  dead  dog! 

Mimicking 

onto  the  lawns  of  the  rich! 

You! 

to  go  with  me  a-tip-toe, 

head  down  under  heaven, 

nostrils  lipping  the  wind  ! 


PASTORAL 

When  I  was  younger 

it  was  plain  to  me 

I  must  make  something  of  myself. 

Older  now 

I  walk  back  streets 

admiring  the  houses 


of  the  very  poor: 

roof  out  of  line  with  sides 

the  yards  cluttered 

with  old  chicken  wire,  ashes, 

furniture  gone  wrong; 

the  fences  and  outhouses 

built  of  barrel-staves 

and  parts  of  boxes,  all, 

if  I  am  fortunate, 

smeared  a  bluish  green 

that  properly  weathered 

pleases  me  best 

of  all  colors. 

No  one 

will  believe  this 
of  vast  import  to  the  nation. 


CHICKORY  AND  DAISIES 

i. 

Lift  your  flowers 
on  bitter  stems 
chickory ! 
Lift  them  up 

out  of  the  scorched  ground! 
Bear  no  foliage 
but  give  yourself 
wholly  to  that! 

[15] 


Strain  under  them 

you  bitter  stems 

that  no  beast  eats — 

and  scorn  greyness ! 

Into  the  heat  with  them: 

cool! 

luxuriant !     sky-blue ! 

The  earth  cracks  and 

is  shriveled  up; 

the  wind  moans  piteously; 

the  sky  goes  out 

if  you  should  fail. 

ii. 

I  saw  a  child  with  daisies 
for  weaving  into  the  hair 
tear  the  stems 
with  her  teeth ! 


METRIC  FIGURE 

There  is  a  bird  in  the  poplars ! 
It  is  the  sun! 

The  leaves  are  little  yellow  fish 
swimming  in  the  river. 
The  bird  skims  above  them, 
day  is  on  his  wings. 
Phoebus ! 

It  is  he  that  is  making 
[16] 


the  great  gleam  among  the  poplars ! 

It  is  his  singing 

outshines  the  noise 

of  leaves  clashing  in  the  wind. 


WOMAN  WALKING 

An  oblique  cloud  of  purple  smoke 

across  a  milky  silhouette 

of  house  sides  and  tiny  trees — 

a  little  village — 

that  ends  in  a  saw  edge 

of  mist-covered  trees 

on  a  sheet  of  grey  sky. 

To  the  right,  jutting  in, 
a  dark  crimson  corner  of  roof. 
'To  the  left,  half  a  tree: 

—what  a  blessing  it  is 
to  see  you  in  the  street  again, 
powerful  woman, 
coming  with  swinging  haunches, 
breasts  straight  forward, 
supple  shoulders,  full  arms 
and  strong,  soft  hands  (I've  felt  them) 
carrying  the  heavy  basket. 
I  might  well  see  you  oftener! 
And  for  a  different  reason 

[17] 


than  the  fresh  eggs 

you  bring  us  so  regularly. 

Yes,  you,  young  as  I, 

with  boney  brows, 

kind  grey  eyes  and  a  kind  mouth  ; 

you  walking  out  toward  me 

from  that  dead  hillside! 

I  might  well  see  you  oftener. 


GULLS 

My    townspeople,    beyond  in  the  great 

world, 

are  many  with  whom  it  were  far  more 
profitable  for  me  to  live  than  here  with 

you. 

These  whirr  about  me  calling,  calling! 
and   for  my  own  part  I  answer  them, 

loud  as  I  can, 
but  they,  being  free,  pass ! 
I  remain  !     Therefore,  listen  ! 
For    you    will    not    soon    have    another 

singer. 

First  I  say  this :  you  have  seen 

the  strange  birds,  have    you    not,    that 

sometimes 
rest  upon  our  river  in  winter? 

[18] 


Let  them  cause  you  to  think  well  then 

of  the  storms 

that  drive  many  to  shelter.    These  things 
do  not  happen  without  reason. 

And  the  next  thing  I  say  is  this : 

I  saw  an  eagle  once  circling  against  the 

clouds 

over  one  of  our  principal  churches — 
Easter,  it  was — a  beautiful  day! — : 
three  gulls  came  from  above  the  river 
and  crossed  slowly  seaward! 
Oh,  I  know  you  have  your  own  hymns,  I 

have  heard  them — 
and  because  I  knew  they  invoked  some 

great  protector 

I  could  not  be  angry  with  you,  no  matter 
how  much  they  outraged  true  music — 

You  see,  it  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  leap 

at  each  other, 

and,  as  I  told  you,  in  the  end 
the  gulls  moved  seaward  very  quietly. 


APPEAL 

You  who  are  so  mighty, 
crimson  salamander, 
hear  me  once  more. 


I  lay  among  the  half  burned  sticks 

at  the  edge  of  the  fire. 

The  fiend  was  creeping  in. 

I  felt  the  cold  tips  of  fingers — 

O  crimson  salamander! 

Give  me  one  little  flame, 

one! 

that  I  may  bind  it 

protectingly  about  the  wrist 

of  him  that  flung  me  here, 

here  upon  the  very  center ! 

This  is  my  song. 


IN  HARBOR 

Surely  there,  among  the  great  docks,  is 

peace,  my  mind ; 

there  with  the  ships  moored  in  the  river. 
Go  out,  timid  child, 
and  snuggle  in    among    the  great    ships 

talking  so  quietly. 
Maybe  you  will   even   fall   asleep  near 

them  and  be 
lifted  into  one  of  their  laps,  and  in  the 

morning — 
There  is  always  the  morning  in  which  to 

remember  it  all ! 

[20] 


Of  what  are  they  gossiping?  God  knows. 

And  God  knows  it  matters  little  for  we 
cannot  understand  them. 

Yet  it  is  certainly  of  the  sea,  of  that 
there  can  be  no  question. 

It  is  a  quiet  sound.  Rest!  That's  all 
I  care  for  now. 

The  smell  of  them  will  put  us  to  sleep 
presently. 

Smell !  It  PS  the  sea  water  mingling  here 
into  the  river — 

at  least  so  it  seems — perhaps  it  is  some 
thing  else — but  what  matter? 

The  sea  water!     It  is  quiet  and  smooth 

here! 
How   slowly  they  move,  little  by   little 

trying 
the  hawsers  that  drop  and  groan  with 

their  agony. 
Yes,  it  is  certainly  of  the  high  sea  they 

are  talking. 


WINTER  SUNSET 

Then  I  raised  my  head 
and  stared  out  over 
the  blue  February  waste 
to  the  blue  bank  of  hill 
with  stars  on  it 

[21] 


in  strings  and  festoons — 

but  above  that: 

one  opaque 

stone  of  a  cloud 

just  on  the  hill 

left  and  right 

as  far  as  I  could  see; 

and  above  that 

a  red  streak,  then 

icy  blue  sky! 

It  was  a  fearful  thing 
to  come  into  a  man's  heart 
at  that  time:  that  stone 
over  the  little  blinking  stars 
they'd  set  there. 


APOLOGY 

Why  do  I  write  today? 

The  beauty  of 
the  terrible  faces 
of  our  nonentities 
stirs   me   to  it: 

colored  women 

day  workers — 

old  and  experienced — 

returning  home  at  dusk 

[22] 


in  cast  off  clothing 

faces  like 

old  Florentine  oak. 

Also 

the  set  pieces 

of  your  faces  stir  me— 

leading  citizens — 

but  not 

in  the  same  way. 


PASTORAL         ^ 

The  little  sparrows 
hop  ingenuously 
about  the  pavement 
quarreling 
with  sharp  voices 
over  those  things 
that  interest  them. 
But  we  who  are  wiser 
shut  ourselves  in 
on  either  hand 
and  no  one  knows 
whether  we  think  good 
or  evil. 

Meanwhile, 
the  old  man  who  goes  about 


gathering  'dog-lime 

walks  in  the  gutter 

without  looking  up 

and  his  tread 

is  more  majestic  than 

that  of  the  Episcopal  minister 

approaching  the  pulpit 

of  a  Sunday. 

These  things 
astonish  me  beyond  words. 


LOVE  SONG 

Daisies  are  broken 

petals  are  news  of  the  day 

stems  lift  to  the  grass  tops 

they  catch  on  shoes 

part  in  the  middle 

leave  root  and  leaves  secure. 

Black  branches 
carry  square  leaves 
to  the  wood's  top. 
They  hold  firm 
break  with  a  roar 
show  the  white ! 

Your  moods  are  slow 
the  shedding  of  leaves 

[24] 


and  sure 

the  return  in  May! 

We  walked 

in  your   father's  grove 

and  saw  the  great  oaks 

lying  with  roots 

ripped  from  the  ground. 


M.  B. 

Winter  has  spent  this  snow 

out  of  envy,  but  spring  is  here! 

He  sits  at  the  breakfast  table 

in  his  yellow  hair 

and  disdains  even  the  sun 

walking  outside 

in  spangled  slippers : 

He  looks  out:  there  is 
a  glare  of  lights 
before  a  theater, — 
a  sparkling  lady 
passes  quickly  to 
the  seclusion  of 
her  carriage. 

Presently 

under  the  dirty,  wavy  heaven 
of  a  borrowed  room  he  will  make 

[25] 


re-inhaled  tobacco  smoke 
his  clouds  and  try  them 
against  the  sky's  limits! 


TRACT 

I  will  teach  you     my  townspeople 

how  to  perform     a  funeral — 

for  you  have  it     over  a  troop 

of  artists — 

unless  one  should     scour  the  world — 

you  have  the  ground  sense     necessary. 

See  !     the  hearse  leads. 

I  begin  with     a  design  for  a  hearse. 

For  Christ's  sake      not  black — 

nor  white  either —     and  not  polished! 

Let  it  be  weathered —     like  a  farm 

wagon — 

with  gilt  wheels     (this  could  be 
applied  fresh     at  small  expense) 
or  no  wheels  at  all : 
a  rough  day  to     drag  over  the  ground. 

Knock  the  glass  out! 

My  God — glass,     my  townspeople ! 

For  what  purpose?     Is  it  for  the  dead 

to  look  out  or     for  us  to  see 

how  well  he  is  housed    or  to  see 


the  flowers  or     the  lack  of  them— 

or  what? 

To  keep  the  rain     and  snow  from  him? 

He  will  have  a    heavier  rain  soon : 

pebbles  and  dirt     and  what  not. 

Let  there  be  no  glass —  j JoC 

and  no  upholstery     phew  ! 

and  no  little     brass  rollers 

and  small  easy  wheels     on  the  bottom 

my  townspeople     what  are  you  thinking 
of? 

A  rough        plain  hearse  then 
with  gilt  wheels     and  no  top  at  ail. 
On  this     the  coffin  lies 
by  its  own  weight. 

No  wreathes  please — 
especially  no     hot  house  flowers. 
Some  common  memento     is  better, 
something  he  prized     and  is  known  by: 
his  old  clothes—     a  few  books  perhaps — 
God  knows  what !     You  realize 
how  we  are     about  these  things 
my  townspeople — 

something  will  be  found—     anything 
even  flowers     if  he  had  come  to  that. 

So  much  for     the  hearse. 
For  heaven's  sake  though        see  to  the 
driver ! 

[27] 


Take  off     the  silk  hat !  In  fact 

that's  no  place        at  all  for  him — 

up  there     unceremoniously 

dragging  our   friend  out       to  his  own 

dignity ! 

Bring  him  down —     bring  him  down ! 
Low  and  inconspicuous !     I'd  not  have 

him  ride 

on  the  wagon  at  all —    damn  him — 
the  undertaker's     understrapper! 
Let  him  hold     the  reins 
and  walk     at  the  side 
and  inconspicuously     too ! 

Then  briefly     as  to  yourselves : 

Walk  behind —     as  they  do  in  France, 

seventh  class,  or     if  you  ride 

Hell  take  curtains !     Go  with  some 

show 

of  inconvenience;     sit  openly — 
to  the  weather     as  to  grief. 
Or  do  you  think     you  can  shut  grief  in? 
What — from  us  ?     We  who  have  perhaps 
nothing  to  lose  ?     Share  with  us 
share  with  us —     it  will  be  money 
in  your  pockets. 

Go  now 
I  think  you  are    ready. 

[28] 


PROMENADE 

i. 

Well,  mind,  here  we  have 
our  little  son  beside  us  : 
a  little  diversion  before  breakfast! 

Come,  we'll  walk  down  the  road 

till  the  bacon  will  be  frying. 

We  might  better  be  idle? 

A  poem  might  come  of  it? 

Oh,  be  useful.     Save  annoyance 

to  Flossie  and  besides — the  wind ! 

It's  cold.    It  blows  our 

old  pants  out!    It  makes  us  shiver! 

See  the  heavy  trees 

shifting  their  weight  before  it. 

Let  us  be  trees,  an  old  house, 

a  hill  with  grass  on  it ! 

The  baby's  arms  are  blue. 

Come,  move  !     Be  quieted ! 

ii. 

So.  We'll  sit  here  now 
and  throw  pebbles  into 
this  water-trickle. 

Splash  the  water  up ! 
(Splash  it  up,  Sonny!)     Laugh! 
Hit  it  there  deep  under  the  grass. 

[29] 


See  it  splash!    Ah,  mind, 
see  it  splash!     It  is  alive! 
Throw  pieces  of  broken  leaves 
into  it.     They'll  pass  through. 
No!     Yes — just! 

Away  now  for  the  cows !     But — 

It's  cold! 

It's  getting  dark. 

It's  going  to  rain. 

No  further! 

in. 

Oh  then,  a  wreath !    Let's 
refresh  something  they 
used  to  write  well  of. 

Two   fern  plumes.     Strip  them 
to  the  mid-rib  along  one  side. 
Bind  the  tips  with  a  grass  stem. 
Bend  and  intertwist  the  stalks 
at  the  back.     So! 
Ah!    now  we  are  crowned! 
Now  we  are  a  poet! 

Quickly ! 

A  bunch  of  little  flowers 

for  Flossie — the  little  ones 

only: 

a  red  clover,  one 

[30] 


blue  heal-all,  a  sprig  of 
bone-set,  one  primrose, 
a  head  of  Indian  tobacco,  this 
magenta  speck  and  this 
little  lavender ! 

Home  now,  my  mind ! — 
Sonny's  arms  are  icy,  I  tell  you — 
and  have  breakfast! 


EL  HOMBRE 

It's  a  strange  courage 
you  give  me  ancient  star: 

Shine  alone  in  the  sunrise 
toward  which  you  lend  no  part! 


HERO 

Fool, 

put  your  adventures 
into  those  things 
which  break  ships — 
not  female  flesh. 

Let  there  pass 
over  the  mind 
the  waters  of 


four  oceans,  the  airs 
of  four  skies! 

Return  hollow-bellied, 

keen-eyed,  hard! 

A  simple  scar  or  two. 

Little  girls  will  come 

bringing  you 

roses  for  your  button-hole. 


LIBERTAD!    IGUALDAD! 
FRATERNIDAD ! 

You  sullen  pig  of  a  man 
you  force  me  into  the  mud 
with  your  stinking  ash-cart ! 

Brother ! 

— if  we  were  rich 
we'd  stick  our  chests  out 
and  hold  our  heads  high ! 

It  is  dreams  that  have  destroyed  us. 

There  is  no  more  pride 
in  horses  or  in  rein  holding. 
We  sit  hunched  together  brooding 
our  fate. 

[32] 


Well- 
all  things  turn  bitter  in  the  end 
whether  you  choose  the  right  or 
the  left  way 

and — 
dreams  are  not  a  bad  thing. 

CANTHARA 

The  old  black-man  showed  me 

how  he  had  been  shocked 

in  his  youth 

by  six  women,  dancing 

a  set-dance,  stark  naked  below 

the  skirts  raised  round 

their  breasts: 

bellies  flung  forward 
knees  flying! 

— while 

his  gestures,  against  the 
tiled  wall  of  the  dingy  bath-room, 
swished  with  ecstasy  to 
the  familiar  music  of 

his  old  emotion. 


MUJER 

Oh,  black  Persian  cat! 

Was  not  your  life 

already  cursed  with  offspring? 

[33] 


We  took  you  for  rest  to  that  old 
Yankee  farm, — so  lonely 
and  with  so  many  field  mice 
in  the  long  grass — 
and  you  return  to  us 
in  this  condition — ! 

Oh,  black  Persian  cat. 


SUMMER  SONG 

Wanderer  moon 

smiling  a 

faintly  ironical  smile 

at  this 

brilliant,  dew-moistened 

summer  morning, — 

a  detached 

sleepily  indifferent 

smile,  a 

wanderer's  smile, — 

if  I  should 

buy  a  shirt 

your  color  and 

put  on  a  necktie 

sky  blue 

where  would  they  carry  me? 


[34] 


LOVE  SONG 

Sweep  the  house  clean, 
hang  fresh  curtains 
in  the  windows 
put  on  a  new  dress 
and  come  with  me ! 
The  elm  is  scattering 
its  little  loaves 
of  sweet  smells 
from  a  white  sky ! 

Who  shall  hear  of  us 
in  the  time  to  come? 
Let  him  say  there  was 
a  burst  of   fragrance 
from  black  branches. 


FOREIGN 

Artsybashev  is  a  Russian. 

I  am  an  American. 

Let  us  wonder,  my  townspeople, 

if  Artsybashev  tends  his  own  fires 

as  I  do,  gets  himself  cursed 

for  the  baby's  failure  to  thrive, 

loosens  windows  for  the  woman 

who  cleans  his  parlor — 

or  has  he  neat  servants 

[35] 


and  a  quiet  library,  an 
intellectual  wife  perhaps  and 
no  children, — an  apartment 
somewhere  in  a  back  street  or 
lives  alone  or  with  his  mother 
or  sister — 

I  wonder,  my  townspeople, 
if  Artsybashev  looks  upon 
himself  the  more  concernedly 
or  succeeds  any  better  than  I 
in  laying  the  world. 

I  wonder  which  is  the  bigger 
fool  in  his  own  mind. 

These  are  shining  topics 
my  townspeople  but — 
hardly  of  great  moment. 


A  PRELUDE 

I  know  only  the  bare  rocks  of  today. 
In  these  lies  my  brown  sea-weed, — 
green  quartz  veins  bent  through  the  wet 

shale ; 

in  these  lie  my  pools  left  by  the  tide — 
quiet,  forgetting  waves; 

[36] 


on  these  stiffen  white  star  fish  ; 
on  these  I  slip  bare  footed! 

Whispers  of  the  fishy  air  touch  my  body; 
"Sisters,"  I  say  to  them. 


HISTORY 


A  wind  might  blow  a  lotus  petal 

over  the  pyramids — but  not  this   wind. 

Summer  is  a  dried  leaf. 

Leaves  stir  this  way  then  that 
on  the  baked  asphalt,  the  wheels 
of  motor  cars  rush  over  them,— 

gas  smells  mingle  with  leaf  smells. 

Oh,  Sunday,  day  of  worship !  !  ! 

The  steps  to  the  museum  are  high. 
Worshippers  pass  in  and  out. 
Nobody  comes  here  today. 
I  come  here  to  mingle  faiance  dug 
from  the  tomb,  turquoise  colored 
necklaces  and  belched  wind  from  the 
stomach ;  delicately  veined  basins 
of  agate,  cracked  and  discolored  and 
the  stink  of  stale  urine ! 

[37] 


Enter!    Elbow  in  at  the  door. 
Men?    Women? 

Simpering,  clay  fetish-faces  counting 
through  the  turnstile. 

Ah! 

ii. 

This  sarcophagus  contained  the  body 
of  Uresh-Nai,  priestess  to  the  goddess 

Mut, 
Mother  of  All — 

Run  your  finger  against  this  edge ! 
— here  went  the  chisel ! — and  think 
of  an  arrogance  endured  six  thousand 

years 
without  a  flaw ! 

But  love  is  an  oil  to  embalm  the  body. 

Love  is  a  packet  of  spices,  a  strong 

smelling  liquid  to  be  squirted  into 

the  thigh.      No? 

Love  rubbed  on  a  bald  head  will  make 

hair — and  after?      Love  is 

a  lice  comber! 

Gnats  on  dung! 

"The  chisel  is  in  your  hand,  the  block 
is  before  you,  cut  as  I  shall  dictate: 
this  is  the  coffin  of  Uresh-Nai, 
[38] 


priestess  to  the  sky  goddess, — built 
to  endure  forever! 

Carve  the  inside 
with  the  image  of  my  death  in 
little  lines  of  figures  three  fingers  high. 
Put  a  lid  on  it  cut  with  Mut  bending  over 
the  earth,  for  my  headpiece,  and  in  the 

year 

to  be  chosen  I  will  rouse,  the  lid 
shall  be  lifted  and  I  will  walk  about 
the  temple  where  they  have  rested  me 
and  eat  the  air  of  the  place : 

Ah — these  walls  are  high  !     This 
is  in  keeping." 

in. 

The  priestess  has  passed  into  her  tomb. 
The  stone  has  taken  up  her  spirit! 
Granite  over  flesh :  who  will  deny 
its  advantages? 

Your  death? — water 
Sf  .lied  upon  the  ground — 
though  water  will  mount  again  into  rose- 
leaves — 

but  you? — would  hold  life  still, 
even  as  a  memory,  when  it  is  over. 
Benevolence  is  rare. 

Climb  about  this  sarcophagus,  read 
what  is  writ  for  you  in  these  figures, 
[39] 


hard  as  the  granite  that  has  held  them 

with  so  soft  a  hand  the  while 

your  own  flesh  has  been  fifty  times 

through  the  guts  of  oxen, — read! 

"The  rose-tree  will  have  its  donor 

even  though  he  give  stingily. 

The  gift  of  some  endures 

ten  years,  the  gift  of  some  twenty 

and  the  gift  of  some  for  the  time  a 

great  house  rots  and  is  torn  down. 

Some  give  for  a  thousand  years  to  men  of 

one  face,  some  for  a  thousand 

to  all  men  and  some  few  to  all  men 

while  granite  holds  an  edge  against 

the  weather. 

Judge  then  of  love !" 

IV. 

"My  flesh  is  turned  to  stone.     I 

have  endured  my  summer.     The  flurry 

of  falling  petals  is  ended.     Lay 

the  finger  upon  this  granite.    I  was 

well  desired  and  fully  caressed 

by  many  lovers  but  my  flesh 

withered  swiftly  and  my  heart  was 

never  satisfied.     Lay  your  hands 

upon  the  granite  as  a  lover  lays  his 

hand  upon  the  thigh  and  upon  the 

round  breasts  of  her  who  is 

beside  him,  for  now  I  will  not  wither, 

[40] 


now  I  have  thrown  off  secrecy,  now 

I  have  walked  naked  into  the  street, 

now  I  have  scattered  my  heavy  beauty 

in  the  open  market. 

Here  I  am  with  head  high  and  a 

burning  heart  eagerly  awaiting 

your  caresses,  whoever  it  may  be, 

for  granite  is  not  harder  than 

my  love  is  open,  runs  loose  among  you! 

I  arrogant  against  death !     I 

who  have   endured !     I   worn  against 

the  years !" 

v. 

But  it  is  five  o'clock.     Come ! 
Life  is  good — enjoy  it! 
A  walk  in  the  park  while  the  day  lasts. 
I  will  go  with  you.     Look!  this 
northern  scenery  is  not  the  Nile,  but — 
these    benches — the    yellow    and    purple 

dusk — 

the  moon  there — these  tired  people — 
the  lights  on  the  water! 

Are  not  these  Jews  and — Ethiopians? 
The  world  is  young,  surely!     Young 
and  colored  like — a  girl  that  has  come 

upon 
a  lover !    Will  that  do  ? 


WINTER  QUIET 

Limb  to  limb,  mouth  to  mouth 
with  the  bleached  grass 
silver  mist  lies  upon  the  back  yards 
among  the  outhouses. 

The  dwarf  trees 
pirouette  awkwardly  to  it — 
whirling  round  on  one  toe; 
the  big  tree  smiles  and  glances 

upward ! 

Tense  with  suppressed  excitement 
the  fences  watch  where  the  ground 
has  humped  an  aching  shoulder  for 

the  ecstasy. 


DAWN 

Ecstatic  bird  songs  pound 

the  hollow  vastness  of  the  sky 

with  metallic  clinkings — 

beating  color  up  into  it 

at  a  far  edge, — beating  it,  beating  it 

with  rising,  triumphant  ardor, — 

stirring  it  into  warmth, 

quickening  in  it  a  spreading  change, — 

bursting  wildly  against  it  as 

dividing  the  horizon,  a  heavy  sun 

lifts  himself — is  lifted — 

[42] 


bit  by  bit  above  the  edge 
of  things, — runs  free  at  last 
out  into  the  open — !  lumbering 
glorified  in  full  release  upward — 

songs  cease, 

GOOD  NIGHT 

In  brilliant  gas  light 

I  turn  the  kitchen  spigot 

and  watch  the  water  plash 

into  the  clean  white  sink. 

On  the  grooved  drain-board 

to  one  side  is 

a  glass  filled  with  parsley — 

crisped  green. 

Waiting 

for  the  water  to  freshen — 
I  glance  at  the  spotless  floor — : 
a  pair  of  rubber  sandals 
lie  side  by  side 
under  the  wall-table, 
all  is  in  order  for  the  night. 

Waiting,  with  a  glass  in  my  hand 
— three  girls  in  crimson  satin 
pass  close  before  me  on 
the  murmurous  background  of 
the  crowded  opera — 

it  is 
[43] 


memory   playing  the   clown — 
three  vague,  meaningless  girls 
full  of  smells  and 
the  rustling  sound  of 
cloth  rubbing  on  cloth  and 
little  slippers  on  carpet — 
high-school  French 
spoken  in  a  loud  voice ! 

Parsley  in  a  glass, 

still  and  shining, 

brings  me  back.    I  take  my  drink 

and  yawn  deliciously. 

I  am  ready  for  bed. 


DANSE  RUSSE 

If  I  when  my  wife  is  sleeping 

and  the  baby  and  Kathleen 

are  sleeping 

and  the  sun  is  a  flame-white  disc 

in  silken  mists 

above  shining  trees, — 

if  I  in  my  north  room 

danse  naked,  grotesquely 

before  my  mirror 

waving  my  shirt  round  my  head 

and   singing   softly   to   myself : 

"I  am  lonely,  lonely. 

[44] 


I  was  born  to  be  lonely. 

I  am  best  so !" 

If  I  admire  my  arms,  my  face 

my  shoulders,  flanks,  buttocks 

against   the  yellow  drawn  shades,— 

who  shall  say  I  am  not 

the  happy  genius  of  my  household? 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  WOMAN  IN  BED 

There's  my  things 
drying  in  the  corner: 
that  blue  skirt 
joined  to  the  grey  shirt — 

I'm  sick  of  trouble! 

Lift  the  covers 

if  you  want  me 

and  you'll  see 

the  rest  of  my  clothes — 

though  it  would  be  cold 

lying  with  nothing  on ! 

I  won't  work 
and  I've  got  no  cash. 
What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it? 

[45] 


— and  no  jewelry 
(the  crazy  fools) 

But  I've  my  two  eyes 

and  a  smooth  face 

and  here's  this!  look! 

it's  high ! 

There's  brains  and  blood 

in  there — 

my  name's  Robitza ! 

Corsets 

can  go  to  the  devil — 

and  drawers  along  with  them ! 

What  do  I  care ! 


My  two  boys? 
— they're  keen ! 
Let  the  rich  lady 
care  for  them — 
they'll  beat  the  school 
or 

let  them  go  to  the  gutter- 
that  ends  trouble. 

This  house  is  empty 
isn't  it? 
Then  it's  mine 
because  I  need  it. 

[46] 


Oh,  I  won't  starve 
while  there's  the  Bible 
to  make  them  feed  me. 

Try  to  help  me 
if  you  want  trouble 
or  leave  me  alone — 
that  ends  trouble. 

The  county  physician 
is  a  damned  fool 
and  you 
can  go  to  hell! 

You  could  have  closed  the  door 
when  you  came  in ; 
do  it  when  you  go  out. 
I'm  tired. 

VIRTUE 

Now?  Why— 
whirl-pools  of 
orange  and  purple  flame 
feather  twists  of  chrome 
on  a  green  ground 
funneling  down  upon 
the  steaming  phallus-head 
of  the  mad  sun  himself — 
blackened  crimson ! 

Now? 

[47] 


Why- 
it  is  the  smile  of  her 
the  smell  of  her 

the  vulgar  inviting  mouth  of  her! 
It  is — Oh,  nothing  new 
nothing  that  lasts 
an  eternity,  nothing  worth 
putting  out  to  interest, 
nothing — 

but  the  fixing  of  an  eye 
concretely  upon  emptiness! 

\ 

Come !   here  are — 
cross-eyed  men,  a  boy 
with  a  patch,  men  walking 
in  their  shirts,  men  in  hats 
dark  men,  a  pale  man 
with  little  black  moustaches 
and  a  dirty  white  coat, 
fat  men  with  pudgy  faces, 
thin  faces,  crooked  faces 
slit  eyes,  grey  eyes,  black  eyes 
old  men  with  dirty  beards, 
men  in  vests  with 
gold  watch  chains.     Come! 


[48] 


CONQUEST 
[Dedicated  to  F.  W .} 

Hard,  chilly  colors: 

straw  grey,  frost  grey 

the  grey  of  frozen  ground: 

and  you,  O  sun, 

close  above  the  horizon ! 

It  is  I  holds  you — 

half  against  the  sky 

half  against  a  black  tree  trunk 

icily  resplendent ! 

Lie  there,  blue  city,  mine  at  last — 
rimming  the  banked  blue  grey 
and  rise,  indescribable  smoky  yellow 
into  the  overpowering  white ! 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  YOUNG  MAN 
WITH  A  BAD  HEART 

Have  I  seen  her? 

Only  through  the  window 

across  the  street. 

If  I  go  meeting  her 
on  the  corner 
some  damned  fool 
will  go  blabbing  it 

[49] 


to  the  old  man  and 

she'll  get  hell. 

He's  a  queer  old  bastard ! 

Every  time  he  sees  me 

you'd  think 

I  wanted  to  kill  him. 

But  I  figure  it  out 

it's  best  to  let  things 

stay  as  they  are — 

for  a  while  at  least. 

It's  hard 

giving  up  the  thing 

you  want  most 

in  the  world,  but  with  this 

damned  pump  of  mine 

liable  to  give  out. .  . 

She's  a  good  kid 

and  I'd  hate  to  hurt  her 

but  if  she  can  get  over  it — 

it'd  be  the  best  thing. 


KELLER  GEGEN  DOM 

Witness,  would  you — 
one  more  young  man 
in  the  evening  of  his  love 
hurrying  to  confession  : 
[50] 


steps  down  a  gutter 

crosses  a  street 

goes  in  at  a  doorway 

opens  for  you — 

like  some  great  flower — 

a  room  filled  with  lamplight; 

or  whirls  himself 

obediently  to 

the  curl  of  a  hill 

some  wind-dancing  afternoon; 

lies  for  you  in 

the  futile  darkness  of 

a  wall,  sets  stars  dancing 

to  the  crack  of  a  leaf — 

and — leaning  his  head  away — 

snuffs  (secretly) 

the  bitter  powder  from 

his  thumb's  hollow, 

takes  your  blessing  and 

goes  home  to  bed? 

Witness  instead 

whether  you  like  it  or  not 

a  dark  vinegar  smelling  place 

from  which  trickles 

the  chuckle  of 

beginning  laughter 

It  strikes  midnight. 

[51] 


SMELL! 

Oh  strong  ridged  and  deeply  hollowed 
nose   of   mine!     what   will   you   not  be 

smelling? 
What  tactless  asses  we  are,  you  and  I, 

boney  nose, 

always  indiscriminate,  always  unashamed, 
and  now  it  is  the  souring  flowers  of  the 

bedraggled 

poplars  :  a  festering  pulp  on  the  wet  earth 
beneath  them.     With  what  deep  thirst 
we  quicken  our  desires 
to  that  rank  odor  of  a  passing  spring 
time! 
Can  you  not  be  decent?     Can  you  not 

reserve  your  ardors 
for  something  less  unlovely?    What  girl 

will  care 
for  us,  do  you  think,  if  we  continue  in 

these  ways? 
Must  you  taste  everything?   Must  you 

know  everything? 
Must  you  have  a  part  in  everything? 

BALLET 

Are  you  not  weary, 
great  gold  cross 
shining  in  the  wind — 
are  you  not  weary 

[52] 


of  seeing  the  stars 
turning  over  you 
and  the  sun 
going  to  his  rest 
and  you  frozen  with 
a  great  lie 
that  leaves  you 
rigid  as  a  knight 
on  a  marble  coffin? 

— and  you, 
higher,  still, 

robin, 

untwisting  a  song 
from  the  bare 
top-twigs, 
are  you  not 
weary  of  labor, 
even  the  labor  of 
a  song? 

Come  down — join  me 
for  I  am  lonely. 

First  it  will  be 

a  quiet  pace 

to  ease  our  stiffness 

but  as  the  west  yellows 

you  will  be  ready! 

[53] 


Here  in  the  middle 
of  the  roadway 
we  will  fling 
ourselves  round 
with  dust  lilies 
till  we  are  bound  in 
their  twining  stems  ! 
We  will  tear 
their  flowers 
with  arms  flashing! 

And  when 

the  astonished  stars 

push  aside 

their  curtains 

they  will  see  us 

fall  exhausted  where 

wheels  and 

the  pounding  feet 

of  horses 

will  crush   forth 

our  laughter. 


SYMPATHETIC  PORTRAIT  OF  A 
CHILD 

The  murderer's  little  daughter 
who  is  barely  ten  years  old 
jerks  her  shoulders 
right  and  left 

[54] 


so  as  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  me 
without  turning  round. 

Her  skinny  little  arms 

wrap  themselves 

this  way  then  that 

reversely  about  her  body! 

Nervously 

she  crushes  her  straw  hat 

about  her  eyes 

and  tilts  her  head 

to  deepen  the  shadow — 

smiling  excitedly! 

As  best  as  she  can 

she  hides  herself 

in  the  full  sunlight 

her  cordy  legs  writhing 

beneath  the  little  flowered  dress 

that  leaves  them  bare 

from  mid-thigh  to  ankle — 

Why  has  she  chosen  me 

for  the  knife 

that  darts  along  her  smile? 

THE  OGRE 

Sweet  child, 

little  girl  with  well  shaped  legs 

you  cannot  touch  the  thoughts 

I  put  over  and  under  and  around  you 

[55] 


This  is  fortunate  for  they  would 

burn  you  to  an  ash  otherwise. 

Your  petals  would  be  quite  curled  up. 

This  is  all  beyond  you — no  doubt, 

yet  you  do  feel  the  brushings 

of  the  fine  needles ; 

the  tentative  lines  of  your  whole  body 

prove  it  to  me ; 

so  does  your  fear  of  me, 

your  shyness; 

likewise  the  toy  baby  cart 

that  you  are  pushing — 

and  besides,  mother  has  begun 

to  dress  your  hair  in  a  knot. , 

These  are  my  excuses. 

RIPOSTE 

Love  is  like  water  or  the  air 

my  townspeople ; 

it  cleanses,  and  dissipates  evil  gases. 

It  is  like  poetry  too 

and  for  the  same  reasons. 

Love  is  so  precious 

my  townspeople 

that  if  I  were  you  I  would 

have  it  under  lock  and  key — 

like  the  air  or  the  Atlantic  or 

like  poetry! 

[56] 


THE  OLD  MEN 

Old  men  who  have  studied 

every  leg  show 

in  the  city 

Old  men  cut  from  touch 

by  the  perfumed  music — 

polished  or  fleeced  skulls 

that  stand  before 

the  whole  theater 

in  silent  attitudes 

of  attention, — 

old  men  who  have  taken  precedence 

over  young  men 

and  even  over  dark- faced 

husbands  whose  minds 

are  a  street  with  arc-lights. 

Solitary  old  men  for  whom 

we  find  no  excuses — 

I  bow  my  head  in  shame 

for  those  who  malign  you. 

Old  men 

the  peaceful  beer  of  impotence 

be  vours ! 


PASTORAL 

If  I  say  I  have  heard  voices 
who  will  believe  me? 

"None  has  dipped  his  hand 
[57] 


in  the  black  waters  of  the  sky 
nor  picked  the  yellow  lilies 
that  sway  on  their  clear  stems 
and  no  tree  has  waited 
long  enough  nor  still  enough 
to  touch  fingers  with  the  moon." 

I  looked  and  there  were  little  frogs 
with  puffed  out  throats, 
singing  in  the  slime. 

SPRING  STRAINS 

In  a  tissue-thin  monotone  of  blue-grey 

buds 

crowded  erect  with  desire  against 
the  sky — 

tense  blue-grey  twigs 
slenderly  anchoring  them  down,  drawing 
them  in — 

two  blue-grey  birds   chasing 
a  third  struggle  in  circles,  angles, 
swift  convergings  to  a  point  that  bursts 
instantly ! 

Vibrant  bowing  limbs 
pull  downward,  sucking  in  the  sky 
that  bulges  from  behind,  plastering  itself 
against  them  in  packed  rifts,  rock  blue 
and  dirty  orange ! 

But— 
[58] 


(Hold  hard,  rigid  jointed  trees!) 
the  blinding  and  red-edged  sun-blur — 
creeping  energy,  concentrated 
counterforce — welds  sky,  buds,  trees, 
rivets  them  in  one  puckering  hold ! 
Sticks  through !    Pulls  the  whole 
counter-pulling  mass  upward,  to  the 

right, 

locks  even  the  opaque,  not  yet  defined 
ground  in  a  terrific  drag  that  is 
loosening  the  very  tap-roots ! 

On  a  tissue-thin  monotone  of  blue-grey 

buds 

two  blue-grey  birds,  chasing  a  third, 
at  full  cry !     Now  they  are 
flung     outward     and     up — disappearing 

suddenly ! 

TREES 

Crooked,  black  tree 
on  your  little  grey-black  hillock, 
ridiculously  raised  one  step  toward 
the  infinite  summits  of  the  night : 
even  you  the  few  grey  stars 
draw  upward  into  a  vague  melody 
of  harsh  threads. 

Bent  as  you  are  from  straining 
against  the  bitter  horizontals  of 

[59] 


a  north  wind, — there  below  you 

how  easily  the  long  yellow  notes 

of  poplars  flow  upward  in  a  descending 

scale,  each  note  secure  in  its  own 

posture — singularly  woven. 

All  voices  are  blent  willingly 

against  the  heaving  contra-bass 

of  the  dark  but  you  alone 

warp  yourself  passionately  to  one  side 

in  your  eagerness. 


A  PORTRAIT  IN  GREYS 

Will  it  never  be  possible 
to  separate  you  from  your  greyness? 
Must  you  be  always  sinking  backward 
into  your  grey-brown  landscapes — and 

trees 

always  in  the  distance,  always  against 
a  grey  sky? 

Must  I  be  always 
moving  counter  to  you?    Is  there  no 

place 

where  we  can  be  at  peace  together 
and  the  motion  of  our  drawing  apart 
be  altogether  taken  up? 

I  see  myself 
standing  upon  your  shoulders  touching 

[60] 


a  grey,  broken  sky — 

but  you,  weighted  down  with  me, 

yet  gripping  my  ankles, — move 

laboriously  on, 

where    it  is    level  and    undisturbed    by 
colors. 


INVITATION 

You  who  had  the  sense 

to  choose  me  such  a  mother, 

you  who  had  the  indifference 

to  create  me, 

you  who  went  to  some  pains 

to  leave  hands  off  me 

in  the  formative  stages, — 

(I  thank  you  most  for  that 

perhaps) 

but  you  who 
with  an  iron  head,  first, 
fiercest  and  with  strongest  love 
brutalized  me  into  strength, 
old  dew-lap, — 
I  have  reached  the  stage 
where  I  am  teaching  myself 
to  laugh. 

Come  on, 
take  a  walk  with  me. 

[61] 


D1VERTIMTENTO 

Miserable  little  woman 
in  a  brown  coat — 

quit   whining ! 
My  hand  for  you  ! 
We'll  skip  down  the  tin  cornices 
of  Main  Street 
flicking  the  dull  roof-line 
with  our  toe-tips ! 
Hop  clear  of  the  bank !    A 
pin-wheel  round  the  white  flag-pole. 

And  I'll  sing  you  the  while 

a  thing  to  split  your  sides 

about  Johann  Sebastian  Bach, 

the  father  of  music,  who  had 

three  wives  and  twenty-two  children. 


JANUARY  MORNING 

SUITE 

I. 

I  have  discovered  that  most  of 

the  beauties  of  travel  are  due  to 

the  strange  hours  we  keep  to  see  them 

the  domes  of  the  Church  of 

the  Paulist  Fathers  in  Weehawken 


against  a  smoky  dawn — the  heart 

stirred — 

are  beautiful  as  Saint  Peters 
approached  after  years  of  anticipation. 

n. 

Though  the  operation  was  postponed 
I  saw  the  tall  probationers 
in  their  tan  uniforms 

hurrying    to    breakfast! 

in. 

— and  from  basement  entrys 
neatly  coiffed,  middle  aged  gentlemen 
with  orderly  moustaches  and 
well  brushed  coats 

IV. 

— and  the  sun,  dipping  into  the  avenues 

streaking  the  tops  of 

the  irregular  red  houselets, 

and 
the  gay  shadows  dropping  and  dropping. 

v. 

— and  a  young  horse  with  a  green  bed- 
quilt 

on  his  withers  shaking  his  head : 
bared  teeth  and  nozzle  high  in  the  air ! 

[63] 


VI. 

— and  a  semicircle  of  dirt  colored  men 
about  a  fire  bursting  from  an  old 
ash  can, 

VII. 

— and  the  worn, 
blue  car  rails  (like  the  sky!) 
gleaming  among  the  cobbles ! 

VIII. 

— and  the  rickety   ferry-boat  "Arden"! 
What  an  object  to  be  called  '"Arden" 
among  the  great  piers, — on  the 
ever  new  river ! 

"Put  me   a  Touchstone 
at  the  wheel,  white  gulls,  and  we'll 
follow  the  ghost  of  the  Half  Moon 
to    the    North    West    Passage — and 

through ! 
(at  Albany!)  for  all  that!" 

IX. 

Exquisite  brown  waves — long 
circlets  of  silver  moving  over  you ! 
enough  with  crumbling  ice-crusts  among 

you ! 

The  sky  has  come  down  to  you, 
lighter  than  tiny  bubbles,  face  to 

[64] 


face  with  you ! 

His  spirit  is 

a  white  gull  with  delicate  pink  feet 
and  a  snowy  breast  for  you  to 
hold  to  your  lips  delicately ! 

x. 

The  young  doctor  is  dancing  with 

happiness 

in  the  sparkling  wind,  alone 
at  the  prow  of  the  ferry !    He  notices 
the  curdy  barnacles  and  broken  ice  crusts 
left  at  the  slip's  base  by  the  low  tide 
and  thinks  of  summer  and  green 
shell  crusted  ledges  among 

the   emerald  eel-grass ! 

XI. 

Who  knows  the  Palisades  as  I  do 
knows  the  river  breaks  east  from  them 
above  the  city — but  they  continue  south 
— under  the  sky — to  bear  a  crest  of 
little  peering  houses  that  brighten 
with  dawn  behind  the  moody 
water-loving  giants  of  Manhattan. 

XII. 

Long  yellow  rushes  bending 
above  the  white  snow  patches; 
purple  and  gold  ribbon 

[65] 


of  the  distant  wood : 

what   an   angle 
you  make  with  each  other  as 
you  lie  there  in  contemplation. 

XIII. 

Work  hard  all  your  young  days 

and  they'll  find  you  too,  some  morning 

staring  up  under 

your  chiffonier  at  its  warped 

bass-wood  bottom  and  your  soul — 

out! 

— among  the  little  sparrows 

behind  the  shutter. 

XIV. 

— and  the  flapping  flags  are  at 
half  mast  for  the  dead  admiral. 

xv. 

All  this— 

was  for  you,  old  woman. 
I  wanted  to  write  a  poem 
that  you  would  understand. 
For  what  good  is  it  to  me 
if  you  can't  understand  it? 

But  you  got  to  try  hard- 
But— 

Well,  you  know  how 
the  young  girls  run  giggling 
[66] 


on  Park  Avenue  after  dark 

when  they  ought  to  be  home  in  bed? 

Well, 

that's  the  way  it  is  with  me  somehow 


TO  A   SOLITARY  DISCIPLE 

Rather  notice,  mon  cher, 

that  the  moon  is 

tilted  above 

the  point  of  the  steeple 

than  that  its  color 

is  shell-pink. 


Rather  observe 

that  it  is  early  morning 

than  that  the  sky 

is  smooth 

as  a  turquoise. 

Rather  grasp 

how  the  dark 

converging  lines 

of  the  steeple 

meet  at  the  pinnacle — 

perceive  how 

its  little  ornament 

tries  to  stop  them — 

[67] 


See  how  it  fails! 

See  how  the  converging  lines 

of  the  hexagonal  spire 

escape  upward — 

receding,  dividing! 

— sepals 

that  guard  and  contain 

the  flower ! 

Observe 

how  motionless 

the  eaten  moon 

lies  in  the  protecting  lines. 

It  is  true: 

in  the  light  colors 

of  morning 

brown-stone  and  slate 

shine  orange  and  dark  blue. 

But  observe 

the  oppressive  weight 

of  the  squat  edifice ! 

Observe 

the  jasmine  lightness 

of  the  moon. 


[68] 


DEDICATION    FOR    A    PLOT   OF 
GROUND 

This  plot  of  ground 

facing  the  waters  of  this  inlet 

is  dedicated  to  the  living  presence  of 

Emily  Richardson  Wellcome 

who  was  born  in  England;  married; 

lost  her  husband  and  with 

her  five  year  old  son 

sailed  for  New  York  in  a  two-master; 

was  driven  to  the  Azores ; 

ran  adrift  on  Fire  Island  shoal, 

met  her  second  husband 

in  a  Brooklyn  boarding  house, 

went  with  him  to  Puerto  Rico 

bore  three  more  children,  lost 

her  second  husband,  lived  hard 

for  eight  years  in  St.  Thomas, 

Puerto  Rico,  San  Domingo,  followed 

the  oldest  son  to  New  York, 

lost  her  daughter,  lost  her  "baby," 

seized  the  two  boys  of 

the  oldest  son  by  the  second  marriage 

mothered  them — they  being 

motherless — fought  for  them 

against  the  other  grandmother 

and  the  aunts,  brought  them  here 

summer  after  summer,  defended 

herself  here  against  thieves, 

[69] 


storms,  sun,  fire, 

against  flies,  against  girls 

that  came  smelling  about,  against 

drought,  against  weeds,  storm-tides, 

neighbors,  weasles  that  stole  her  chickens, 

against  the  weakness  of  her  own  hands, 

against  the  growing  strength  of 

the  boys,  against  wind,  against 

the  stones,  against  trespassers, 

against  rents,  against  her  own  mind. 

She   grubbed   this    earth   with   her   own 

hands, 

domineered  over  this  grass  plot, 
blackguarded  her  oldest  son 
into  buying  it,  lived  here  fifteen  years, 
attained  a  final  loneliness  and — 

If  you  can  bring  nothing  to  this  place 
but  your  carcass,  keep  out. 

K.     McB. 

You  exquisite  chunk  of  mud 
Kathleen — just  like 
any  other  chunk  of  mud! 
— especially  in  April! 
Curl  up  round  their  shoes 
when  they  try  to  step  on  you, 
spoil  the  polish ! 

[70] 


I  shall  laugh  till  I  am  sick 

at  their  amazement. 

Do  they  expect  the  ground  to  be 

always  solid? 

Give  them  the  slip  then; 

let  them  sit  in  you ; 

soil  their  pants ; 

teach  them  a  dignity 

that  is  dignity,  the  dignity 

of  mud ! 


Lie  basking  in 
the  sun  then — fast  asleep  ! 
Even  become  dust  on  occasion. 


LOVE     SONG 

I  lie  here  thinking  of  you: — 

the  stain  of  love 

is  upon  the  world ! 

Yellow,  yellow,  yellow 

it  eats  into  the  leaves, 

smears  with  saffron 

the  horned  branches  that  lean 

heavily 

against  a  smooth  purple  sky ! 

There  is  no  light 


only  a  honey-thick  stain 
that  drips  from  leaf  to  leaf 
and  limb  to  limb 
spoiling  the  colors 
of  the  whole  world — 

you  far  off  there  under 

the  wine-red  selvage  of  the  west! 


[72] 


THE   WANDERER 


THE    WANDERER 
A  Rococo  Study 

ADVENT 

Even  in  the  time  when  as  yet 

I  had  no  certain  knowledge  of  her 

She  sprang  from  the  nest,  a  young  crow, 

Whose  first  flight  circled  the  forest. 

I  know  now  how  then  she  showed  me 

Her  mind,  reaching  out  to  the  horizon, 

She  close  above  the  tree  tops. 

I  saw  her  eyes  straining  at  the  new  distance 

And  as  the  woods  fell  from  her  flying 

Likewise  they  fell  from  me  as  I  followed — 

So  that  I  strongly  guessed  all  that  I  must  put 

from  me 
To  come  through  ready  for  the  high  courses. 

But  one  day,  crossing  the  ferry 

With  the  great  towers  of  Manhattan  before  me, 

Out  at  the  prow  with  the  sea  wind  blowing, 

I  had  been  wearying  many  questions 

Which  she  had  put  on  to  try  me: 

How  shall  I  be  a  mirror  to  this  modernity? 

When  lo !  in  a  rush,  dragging 

A  blunt  boat  on  the  yielding  river — 

Suddenly  I  saw  her !  And  she  waved  me 

From  the  white  wet  in  midst  of  her  playing ! 

She  cried  me,  "Haia!    Here  I  am,  son! 

[75] 


See  how  strong  my  little  finger  is ! 

Can  I  not  swim  well? 

I  can  fly  too !"     And  with  that  a  great  sea-gull 

Went  to  the  left,  vanishing  with  a  wild  cry — 

But  in  my  mind  all  the  persons  of  godhead 

Followed  after. 

CLARITY 

"Come!"  cried  my  mind  and  by  her  might 

That  was  upon  us  we  flew  above  the  river 

Seeking  her,  grey  gulls  among  the  white  — 

In  the  air  speaking  as  she  had  willed  it: 

"I  am  given/'  cried  I,  "now  I  know  it! 

I  know  now  all  my  time  is  forespent ! 

For  me  one  face  is  all  the  world! 

For  I  have  seen  her  at  last,  this  day, 

In  whom  age  in  age  is  united — 

Indifferent,  out  of  sequence,  marvelously! 

Saving  alone  that  one  sequence 

Which  is  the  beauty  of  all  the  world,  for  surely 

Either  there  in  the  rolling  smoke  spheres  below  us 

Or  here  with  us  in  the  air  intercircling, 

Certainly  somewhere  here  about  us 

I  know  she  is  revealing  these  things !" 

And  as  gulls  we  flew  and  with  soft  cries 
We  seemed  to  speak,  flying,  "It  is  she 
The  mighty,  recreating  the  whole  world, 
This  the  first  day  of  wonders! 

[76] 


She  is  attiring  herself  before  me — 

Taking  shape  before  me  for  worship, 

A  red  leaf  that  falls  upon  a  stone ! 

It  is  she  of  whom  I  told  you,  old 

Forgiveless,  unreconcilable ; 

That  high  wanderer  of  by-ways 

Walking  imperious  in  beggary ! 

At  her  throat  is  loose  gold,  a  single  chain 

From  among  many,  on  her  bent  fingers 

Are  rings  from  which  the  stones  are  fallen, 

Her  wrists  wear  a  diminished  state,  her  ankles 

Are  bare!    Toward  the  river!    Is  it  she  there?" 

And  we  swerved  clamorously  downward — 

"I  will  take  my  peace  in  her  henceforth !" 

BROADWAY 

It  was  then  she  struck — from  behind, 

In  mid  air,  as  with  the  edge  of  a  great  wing! 

And  instantly  down  the  mists  of  my  eyes 

There  came  crowds  walking — men  as  visions 

With  expressionless,  animate  faces; 

Empty  men  \vith  shell-thin  bodies 

Jostling  close  above  the  gutter, 

Hasting — nowhere!    And  then  for  the  first  time 

I  really  saw  her,  really  scented  the  sweat 

Of  her  presence  and — fell  back  sickened ! 

Ominous,  old,  painted— 

With  bright  lips,  and  lewd  Jew's  eyes 

Her  might  strapped  in  by  a  corset 

To  give  her  age  youth,  perfect 

[77] 


In  her  will  to  be  young  she  had  covered 

The  godhead  to  go  beside  me. 

Silent,  her  voice  entered  at  my  eyes 

And  my  astonished  thought  followed  her  easily: 

"Well,  do  their  eyes  shine,  do  their  clothes  fit? 

These  live  I  tell  you !    Old  men  with  red  cheeks, 

Young  men  in  gay  suits  !     See  them ! 

Dogged,  quivering,  impassive — 

Well — are  these  the  ones  you  envied?" 

At  which  I  answered  her,  "Marvelous  old  queen, 

Grant  me  power  to  catch  something  of  this  day's 

Air  and  sun  into  your  service! 

That  these  toilers  after  peace  and  after  pleasure 

May  turn  to  you,  worshippers  at  all  hours !" 

But  she  sniffed  upon  the  words  warily — 

Yet  I  persisted,  watching  for  an  answer: 

"To  you,  horrible  old  woman, 

Who  know  all  fires  out  of  the  bodies 

Of  all  men  that  walk  with  lust  at  heart! 

To  you,  O  mighty,  crafty  prowler 

After  the  youth  of  all  cities,  drunk 

With  the  sight  of  thy  archness!     All  the  youth 

That  come  to  you,  you  having  the  knowledge 

Rather  than  to  those  uninitiate — 

To  you,  marvelous  old  queen,  give  me  always 

A  new  marriage — " 

But  she  laughed  loudly — 

"A  new  grip  upon  those  garments  that  brushed  me 
In  days  gone  by  on  beach,  lawn,  and  in  forest! 
May  I  be  lifted  still,  up  and  out  of  terror, 

[78] 


Up  from  before  the  death  living  around  me — 
Torn  up  continually  and  carried 
Whatever  way  the  head  of  your  whim  is, 
A  burr  upon  those  streaming  tatters — 
But  the  night  had  fallen,  she  stilled  me 
And  led  me  away. 

PATERSOX — THE  STRIKE 

At  the  first  peep  of  dawn  she  roused  me ! 

I  rose  trembling  at  the  change  which  the  night 

saw! 

For  there,  wretchedly  brooding  in  a  corner 
From  which  he'  old  eyes  glittered  fiercely— 
"Go !"  she  said,  and  I  hurried  shivering 
Out  into  the  deserted  streets  of  Paterson. 

That  night  she  came  again,  hovering 
In  rags  within  the  filmy  ceiling — 
"Great  Queen,  bless  me  with  thy  tatters!" 
"You  are  blest,  go  on !" 

"Hot  for  savagery, 
Sucking  the  air !   I  went  into  the  city, 
Out  again,  baffled  onto  the  mountain ! 
Back   into   the   city! 

Nowhere 
The  subtle  !     Everywhere  the  electric !" 

"A  short  bread-line  before  a  hitherto  empty  tea 
shop: 

[79] 


No  questions — all  stood  patiently, 

Dominated  by  one  idea :  something 

That  carried  them  as  they  are  always  wanting 

to  be  carried, 

'But  what  is  it/  I  asked  those  nearest  me, 
'This  thing  heretofore  unobtainable 
That  they  seem  so  clever  to  have  put  on  now !' 

"Why  since  I  have  failed  them  can  it  be  any 
thing  but  their  own  brood? 

Can  it  be  anything  but  brutality? 

On  that  at  least  they're  united!     That  at  least 

Is  their  bean  soup,  their  calm  bread  and  a  few 
luxuries ! 

"But  in  me,  more  sensitive,  marvelous  old  queen 
It  sank  deep  into  the  blood,  that  I  rose  upon 
The  tense  air  enjoying  the  dusty  fight ! 
Heavy  drink  were  the  low,  sloping  foreheads 
The  flat  skulls  with  the  unkempt  black  or  blond 

hair, 

The  ugly  legs  of  the  young  girls,  pistons 
Too  powerful  for  delicacy ! 
The  women's  wrists,  the  men's  arms,  red 
Used  to  heat  and  cold,  to  toss  quartered  beeves 
And  barrels,  and  milk-cans,  and  crates  of  fruit ! 

"Faces  all  knotted  up  like  burls  on  oaks, 
Grasping,  fox-snouted,  thick-lipped, 
Sagging  breasts  and  protruding  stomachs, 
Rasping  voices,  filthy  habits  with  the  hands. 

[80] 


"Nowhere  you!     Everywhere  the  electric! 

"Ugly,  venemous,  gigantic ! 

Tossing  me  as  a  great  father  his  helpless 

Infant  till  it  shriek  with  ecstasy 

And  its  eyes  roll  and  its  tongue  hangs  out! — 

"I  am  at  peace  again,  old  queen,  I  listen  clearer 
now." 

ABROAD 

Never,  even  in  a  dream, 

Have  I  winged  so  high  nor  so  well 

As  with  her,  she  leading  me  by  the  hand, 

That  first  day  on  the  Jersey  mountains ! 

And  never  shall  I  forget 

The  trembling  interest  with  which  I  heard 

Her  voice  in  a  low  thunder: 

"You  are  safe  here.      Look    child,    look    open- 
mouth  ! 

The  patch  of   road  between  the   steep  bramble 
banks ; 

The  tree  in  the  wind,  the  white  house  there,  the 
sky! 

Speak  to  men  of  these,  concerning  me ! 

For  never  while  you  permit  them  to  ignore  me 

In  these  shall  the  full  of  my  freed  voice 

Come  grappling  the  ear  with  intent ! 

Never  while  the  air's  clear  coolness 
[81] 


Is  seized  to  be  a  coat  for  pettiness; 
Never  while  richness  of  greenery 
Stands  a  shield  for  prurient  minds; 
Never,  permitting  these  things  unchallenged 
Shall  my  voice  of  leaves  and  varicolored  bark 

come  free  through!" 
At  which,  knowing  her  solitude, 
I  shouted  over  the  country  below  me: 
"Waken!  my  people,  to  the  boughs  green 
With  ripening  fruit  within  you ! 
Waken  to  the  myriad  cinque  foil 
In  the  waving  grass  of  your  minds! 
Waken  to  the  silent  phoebe  nest 
Under  the  eaves  of  your  spirit!" 

But  she,  stooping  nearer  the  shifting  hills 
Spoke  again.     "Look  there!     See  them! 
There  in  the  oat  field  with  the  horses, 
See  them  there !  bowed  by  their  passions 
Crushed  down,  that  had  been  raised  as  a  roof 

beam! 

The  weight  of  the  sky  is  upon  them 
Under  which  all  roof  beams  crumble. 
There  is  none  but  the  single  roof  beam: 
There  is  no  love  bears  against  the  great  firefly! 
At  this  I  looked  up  at  the  sun 
Then  shouted  again  with  all  the  might  I  had. 
But  my  voice  was  a  seed  in  the  wind. 
Then  she,  the  old  one,  laughing 
Seized  me  and  whirling  about  bore  back 

[82] 


To  the  city,  upward,  still  laughing 

Until  the  great  towers  stood  above  the  marshland 

Wheeling  beneath:  the  little  creeks,  the  mallows 

That  I  picked  as  a  boy,  the  Hackensack 

So  quiet  that  seemed  so  broad  formerly : 

The  crawling  trains,  the  cedar  swamp  on  the  one 

side — 

All  so  old,  so  familiar — so  new  now 
To  my  marvelling  eyes  as  we  passed 
Invisible. 


SOOTHSAY 

Eight  days  went  by,  eight  days 

Comforted  by  no  nights,  until  finally: 

"Would  you  behold  yourself  old,  beloved?" 

I  was  pierced,  yet  I  consented  gladly 

For  I  knew  it  could  not  be  otherwise. 

And  she— "Behold  yourself  old! 

Sustained  in  strength,  wielding    might    in    gript 

surges ! 

Not  bodying  the  sun  in  weak  leaps 
But  holding  way  over  rockish  men 
With  fern  free  fingers  on  their  little  crags, 
Their  hollows,  the  new  Atlas,  to  bear  them 
For  pride  and  for  mockery!     Behold 
Yourself  old!  winding  with  slow  might — 
A  vine  among  oaks — to  the  thin  tops : 
Leaving  the  leafless  leaved, 
Bearing  purple  clusters  !     Behold 

[83] 


Yourself  old!  birds  are  behind  you. 

You  are  the  wind  coming  that  stills  birds, 

Shakes  the  leaves  in  booming  polyphony — 

Slow,  winning  high  way  amid  the  knocking 

Of  boughs,  evenly  crescendo, 

The  din  and  bellow  of  the  male  wind! 

Leap  then  from  forest  into  foam! 

Lash  about  from  low  into  high  flames 

Tipping  sound,  the  female  chorus — 

Linking  all  lions,  all  twitterings 

To  make  them  nothing!     Behold  yourself  old!" 

As  I  made  to  answer  she  continued, 

A  little  wistfully  yet  in  a  voice  clear  cut: 

"Good  is  my  over  lip  and  evil 

My  underlip  to  you  henceforth : 

For   I   have   taken  your   soul  between   my  two 

hands 
And  this  shall  be  as  it  is  spoken." 

ST.  JAMES'  GROVE 

And  so  it  came  to  that  last  day 
When,  she  leading  by  the  hand,  we  went  out 
Early  in  the  morning,  I  heavy  of  heart 
For  I  knew  the  novitiate  was  ended 
The  ecstasy  was  over,  the  life  begun. 

In  my  woolen  shirt  and  the  pale  blue  necktie 
My  grandmother  gave  me,  there  I  went 
With  the  old  queen  right  past  the  houses 

[84] 


Of  my  friends  down  the  hill  to  the  river 

As  on  any  usual  day,  any  errand. 

Alone,  walking  under  trees, 

I  went  with  her,  she  with  me  in  her  wild  hair, 

By  Santiago  Grove  and  presently 

She  bent  forward  and  knelt  by  the  river, 

The  Passaic,  that  filthy  river. 

And  there  dabbling  her  mad  hands, 

She  called  me  close  beside  her. 

Raising  the  water  then  in  the  cupped  palm 

She  bathed  our  brows  wailing  and  laughing: 

"River,  we  are  old,  you  and  I, 

We  are  old  and  by  bad  luck,  beggars. 

Lo,  the  filth  in  our  hair,  our  bodies  stink! 

Old  friend,  here  I  have  brought  you 

The  young  soul  you  long  asked  of  me. 

Stand  forth,  river,  and  give  me 

The  old  friend  of  my  revels ! 

Give  me  the  well-worn  spirit, 

For  here  I  have  made  a  room  for  it, 

And  I  will  return  to  you  forthwith 

The  youth  you  have  long  asked  of  me: 

Stand  forth,  river,  and  give  me 

The  old  friend  of  my  revels !" 

And  the  filthy  Passaic  consented! 

Then  she,  leaping  up  with  a  fierce  cry : 
"Enter,  youth,  into  this  bulk ! 
Enter,  river,  into  this  young  man !" 

[85] 


Then  the  river  began  to  enter  my  heart, 

Eddying  back  cool  and  limpid 

Into  the  crystal  beginning  of  its  days. 

But  with  the  rebound  it  leaped  forward: 

Muddy,  then  black  and  shrunken 

Till  I  felt  the  utter  depth  of  its  rottenness 

The  vile  breadth  of  its  degradation 

And  dropped  down  knowing  this  was  me  now. 

But  she  lifted  me  and  the  water  took  a  new  tide 

Again  into  the  older  experiences, 

And  so,  backward  and  forward, 

It  tortured  itself  within  me 

Until  time  had  been  washed  finally  under, 

And  the  river  had  found  its  level 

And  its  last  motion  had  ceased 

And  I  knew  all — it  became  me. 

And  I  knew  this  for  double  certain 

For  there,  whitely,  I  saw  myself 

Being  borne  off  under  the  water! 

I  could  have  shouted  out  in  my  agony 

At  the  sight  of  myself  departing 

Forever — but  I  bit  back  my  despair 

For  she  had  averted  her  eyes 

By  which  I  knew  well  what  she  was  thinking — 

And  so  the  last  of  me  was  taken. 

Then  she,  "Be  mostly  silent !" 
And  turning  to  the  river,  spoke  again: 
"For  him  and  for  me,  river,  the  wandering, 
But  by  you  I  leave  for  happiness 
[86] 


Deep  foliage,  the  thickest  beeches — 

Though  elsewhere  they  are  all  dying — 

Tallest  oaks  and  yellow  birches 

That  dip  their  leaves  in  you,  mourning, 

As  now  I  dip  my  hair,  immemorial 

Of  me,  immemorial  of  him 

Immemorial  of  these  our  promises ! 

Here  shall  be  a  bird's  paradise, 

They  sing  to  you  remembering  my  voice : 

Here  the  most  secluded  spaces 

For  miles  around,  hallowed  by  a  stench 

To  be  our  joint  solitude  and  temple; 

In  memory  of  this  clear  marriage 

And  the   child  I  have   brought  you   in  the  late 

years. 

Live,  river,  live  in  luxuriance 
Remembering  this  our  son, 
In  remembrance  of  me  and  my  sorrow 
And  of  the  new  wandering!" 


[87] 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


